only have been down a second or so, but as I stirred and tried to drag myself into a sitting position I heard this ugly voice say, 'Tough bastard, isn't he?' in a broad Geordie accent. And another voice, deep and brown and guttural, and yet a voice in my head, saying:
'Yeah. But you II be softer on the inside, won't ya, boy?'
And when I opened my eyes to catch a glimpse of that face, which I knew went with the voice ...
... It was Jim Banks's wolf-face, of course, but the mad eyes staring out of the sockets were black and glinty as coal, and human ... and inhuman! Then I was kicked over onto my back, and the thing seated itself astride my upper thighs and showed me its claw: five surgical knives set in a swarf-glove that he wore over his hand!
It was dark in my flat, as I've said; the only light came in through chinks in the curtains from the street lamp outside; but it wasn't so dark I
couldn't see this Skippy character over the crazy man's shoulder; how pale his face looked, and how he couldn't bear to look but must turn away!
And then the pain as that Thing ripped into me, and didn't stop ripping...
But you're right, Harry, Jakes sighed after a while, / didn't feel all of it. You can only take so much, you know? And funny, the last thing I remember thinking before I passed out and woke up here, was: 'Jesus, my flat's going to look a real mess . . .!'
Then he was quiet again, maybe turning it al over in his own mind. But as the Necroscope was about to say thanks, Jakes said: Oh, and there's one other thing. It probably isn't worth mentioning, but I'll let you decide. There was this girl.
'Girl?' Harry repeated him.
She was outside the garage, just walking up and down the street. I saw her there twice, and again on the night. . . that this happened. He shrugged the last off, was finally done with it. She was a real looker. Tall, slim, slinky, yet natural with it. Maybe Eurasian? Could be, from the shape of her eyes: like almonds and very slightly tilted. And her hair, bouncing on her shoulders, seeming black as jet but grey in its sheen, with the light glancing of it. She was the ageless type, Harry. I mean, anything from nineteen to thirty-five. But a looker, oh yes!
He pictured her for the Necroscope, who agreed with him: yes, she was definitely a looker. 'A customer, waiting for her car to be fixed?'
Could be, Jakes shrugged again, and fell silent.
The interview was over ...
R.L. STEVENSON JAMIESON, AND HIS BROTHER
V
R.L. STEVENSON JAMIESON, AND HIS BROTHER ...
Back at E-Branch HQ it should have been time to cal it a day, or a night, but Darcy had mentioned some paperwork he must see to before going home. Likewise Ken Layard; he also had work to attend to. And so they had ridden up together with Harry in the elevator and accompanied him to his door. Or perhaps the paperwork was just an excuse because they had sensed that the night wasn't quite over yet where the Necroscope was concerned.
The place was quiet. With the majority of esper personnel already checked out, the main corridor might easily be mistaken for any corridor in any better-class London hotel. But the Duty Officer had met the three out of the elevator, and as the Necroscope entered his room and made to close the door ... suddenly it seemed he heard someone breathe his name!
He immediately boiled over and, stepping back into the corridor, shouted, 'Hey, look! If I'm involved, why not simply involve me? I mean, don't talk about me, talk to me! What am I, a social leper?'
Layard had already entered his office; but Darcy and the Duty Officer, an esper by the name of John Grieve - a bespectacled, balding twig of a man in rolled up shirt-sleeves, grey slacks and slippers, with a clipped, precise, military or 'old-school-tie' sort of voice that Harry supposed might easily get him type-cast as an Inland Revenue Inspector, which he was anything but - were standing with their heads almost conspiratorially close together.
'Well?' he snapped, as they turned puzzled faces towards him.
'Well what?' Darcy was plainly annoyed. 'We weren't talking about you, Harry!'
'Er, but we were about to.' John Grieve was less certain and fidgeted with the lobe of his right